Found
by MeanMisterMustard
Summary: Sherlock has been kidnapped by Moriarty, John thinks there's no hope of ever finding him, until he's found.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One**  
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'The police are on to it' John told himself, 'Lestrade's got his best people on the case.' He had been making these half-hearted attempts to reassure himself since he got the news, just over a week ago, that Sherlock was missing. But it was all to no avail – no matter how much he tried to approach this in a calm and measured manner – his irrational, worried mind took over, always fearing the worst. After all, if it was as they suspected; that Moriarty had taken him, then the only person who would have ever been able to find Sherlock, dead or alive, was Sherlock.

That's why John was shocked almost to disbelief when he received a text from Lestrade that read 'We've got him, he's alive – St Mary's.'

Before he knew it he was already in a cab trying to keep calm through a vast onset of emotions; relief, anxiousness, anger… fear. If Sherlock had spent the past week in the company of Jim Moriarty then chances were he wouldn't be in the best of shape.

Eventually he arrived outside the hospital, then he was running up the steps, then bursting through several sets of doors, finding the appropriate reception, being told he couldn't see Sherlock unless he was family, shouting, pounding his fists on the desk, being threatened with arrest. He couldn't calm down – he had to see Sherlock – as a doctor and a friend he wouldn't rest until he knew Sherlock was ok. He didn't notice one of the nurses slip through the door towards the wards, but he noticed when she returned with Lestrade in tow.

"Oh John – I thought it might be you." He said wearily, he looked as though he hadn't slept in days. "Nurse said there was a nutter out here and wondered if I could help." He said with a slight smile. John wasn't amused.

"How is he? What happened? Please, I need to see him!" John blurted out, realising that he sounded perhaps a little too desperate.

"He's conscious, he doesn't appear to have sustained any major injuries but he isn't talking to anyone and he's refusing any medical treatment…" He ran his hands through his hair "…I don't know about you needing to see him, but he definitely needs to see you." He gestured towards the door he'd just come from and John set off at a brisk pace.

Lestrade led him down a long corridor, for John it felt like the longest walk of his life. Eventually they came to the last room at the end of the corridor and Lestrade gestured for John to enter, which he did, hesitantly – Lestrade gave him a nod and remained outside, closing the door.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, the only bed, somehow the police force must have wrangled him a private room. He looked even more pale, thin and worn out than usual, He had a large gash across his face, which was still oozing a small amount of blood, and he was lying as if very uncomfortable. John was surprised to discover that he was asleep – he'd so rarely witnessed Sherlock sleeping, so every time he did it seemed surreal, and he felt strangely privileged.

He crossed the room quietly and went over to his bedside, taking care not to make too much noise. Looking down at Sherlock he felt a huge pang of guilt – could he have prevented this? He wasn't sure, but he was sure that if he ever saw Moriarty again – he'd fucking kill him.

He carefully peeled a lock of lank hair off Sherlock's blood smeared face, he knew that cut had to be treated quickly, it could already be infected. He picked up a swab and some antiseptic that had been left, clearly by a nurse or doctor who had been refused access by Sherlock. He dipped the swab in the liquid and carefully dabbed Sherlock's face, but he was awake as soon as John made contact. His eyes widened in fear, he grabbed John's wrist and looked at him, startled and angry.

"Sherlock." It was all John seemed able to say.

Sherlock didn't seem able to say anything, but the look of intense fear didn't leave his eyes – so John put the equipment down and held his hands up so that Sherlock could see that he wasn't going to attempt anything.

"You had us worried." He said trying, unsuccessfully, to disguise the tremble in his voice.

There was a prolonged silence, in which Sherlock seemed to calm a little before nodding slightly, and then wincing up in pain a little.

"What's wrong? What hurts?" John asked hurriedly.

Sherlock's eyes had moistened, he simply looked up at John and shook his head a little. He looked so vulnerable, almost childlike. In a bid to calm him down, and comfort him a little, John reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock leaned into his touch, his eyes closing as one rogue tear found it's way down his face.

John was stunned, Sherlock was so… un-Sherlock. What in God's name had Moriarty done to him?

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I know you don't want to deal with this right now, but I need to check you over, I at least need to clean this cut on your face. Then maybe we can go back to the flat." John said hoping this would entice Sherlock to allow him to treat him.

It seemed to work as Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John at the mention of the flat, seeming a little less distressed and nodded slightly. John nodded back before picking up the tray again and starting to clean Sherlock's face. As soon as he'd finished Sherlock looked much better already, but was clearly still suffering.

"Ok. What else?" John said firmly.

Sherlock looked at him for a while in thought, before gesturing towards his chest. John helped Sherlock to sit forward as he needed to untie the strings that held his hospital gown together. However, as John's arm's wrapped around his body to take the garment off, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John too, and John suddenly found himself holding Sherlock, who was now weeping softly into his shoulder.

"Oh Sherlock… it's alright. I've got you." John said gently as he gave up on treating him for the time being and simply held him close as he cried quietly. John rubbed his back and murmured reassurances that he was safe now. "I'm going to stay with you, I'm not going anywhere." Soon his crying turned into sniffles and long laboured breaths.

Reluctant to let him go, but thinking about his injuries, John moved away from him but held on to his shoulders in a bid not to let him fall backwards.

"M'sorry John." Sherlock said hoarsely, barely audible – it was clearly the first words he had uttered in a while.

"Don't be sorry." John said shaking his head.

Sherlock sniffed a little and wiped his face.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but I need to treat the rest of your injuries, are you ok for me to continue?" John asked as gently as he could, trying to disguise the urgency he felt, but then remembering that Sherlock would pick up on it anyway… of course.

Sherlock just nodded before reaching his hands around his back and untied the strings of his gown. John helped him slip the sleeves off his shoulders and couldn't quite stifle a gasp when he saw what was underneath. The sick, sadistic bastard had carved the word 'MINE' in vast, deep welts across Sherlock's chest.

"Oh God." John whispered.

Sherlock didn't react at all, which John found rather odd given his prior, sudden outburst of emotion. John hardly knew what to do, he was trying to choose between remaining professional; administering Sherlock with the treatment he needed, wrapping him up in his arms again and never letting him go, or running from the room to track down Moriarty and beat the twisted little shit to death.

Rationality won out in the end and John used a fresh set of tools to clean the wounds on his chest. Sherlock winced a little, and John, though he knew he had to do this, felt guilt fill him every time he hurt Sherlock – it was clear he'd been through enough pain to last a lifetime.

"I don't think you need stitches, but we need to keep the area very clean, I'll have to change the dressing regularly." John explained once he had finished cleaning the wounds and applied a dressing.

Sherlock had his eyes closed and seemed to still be in a vast amount of discomfort – disproportionate to the cuts on his chest and face.

"Sherlock… what else?"

"There's nothing else." Sherlock replied shakily.

"The hell there isn't."

"Leave it John."

"No. I won't leave it. I'm your friend but I'm also your doctor, and I have a duty of care, now please Sherlock, just tell me why you're in that much pain." John demanded.

Sherlock began to cry softly again and John felt terrible – clearly he needed to be more gentle. He moved slowly and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, gently brushing his face with his knuckles and then cupping his cheek as hot tears ran down over his hand.

"It's ok Sherlock, you can tell me." He whispered.

Sherlock just whimpered and his crying worsened a little. It was unbearable – John's heart shattered, he felt so helpless. He needed to know what was wrong, he needed to help his friend. All he could do was to pull Sherlock into a tight embrace again and hold him close as he completely broke down and his cries turned into loud heart-wrenching sobs, muffled only slightly by John's shoulder.

John stroked the back of Sherlock's hair with one hand, the other resting on his back that heaved as he wept uncontrollably. But John had no words now, no word's of comfort – what could he say to Sherlock to comfort him when he didn't know what was wrong. He just held him and swayed him ever so slightly until, eventually, he calmed and relaxed in John's arms, melting into the warmth.

Whilst still holding him John asked again. "Please tell me." He spoke so softly that he was worried whether or not Sherlock had even heard him. But eventually he felt Sherlock take a long shaky breath.

"He…" he began, sounding fragile and choked up "…he…" there was a pause.

"It's alright." John urged him on, rubbing his back a little, as if it were vital to help him open up.

"…he… raped… me." Sherlock dissolved into a fresh round of tears, clutching desperately at John. John held him closer, trying to stifle a few tears himself, how could this have happened? How?

This explained why Sherlock had suddenly become so emotional, explained why he wouldn't let anyone touch him – except John.

'I'm going to find him and tear him limb from fucking limb.' John thought to himself, he was angrier than he had ever been in his whole life, the overwhelming desire to avenge and protect surged through him and he found himself fighting the urge to break something.

"John." Sherlock said shakily into John's shoulder, pulling him from his contemplation. "I don't want them to touch me."

"I know, Sherlock, I understand." He said pulling away to look him in the eyes, keeping his hands planted firmly on his shoulders. "And I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry."

"You can't make me John." Sherlock sounded scared, ready to run, ready to jump from the window if necessary. John was aware of how tentative the situation was. He didn't want to lose Sherlock's trust right now. And although the clinical, shut-off army doctor was yelling at him to force an examination and the relevant treatment on the patient, his conscience and intuition were telling him to go easy.

"Ok. Ok. Let's just… leave that… for now." John said, somewhat reluctantly and Sherlock relaxed a little. John helped him to lie back against the propped up pillows, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

"Is there anything else?" John asked sadly.

"My hand hurts." Sherlock said quietly.

"This one?" John asked, lifting up Sherlock's left hand.

Sherlock nodded, his face wincing in pain a little.

"Sorry." John added.

He examined his hand, no bones were broken but there were signs of frostbite on the pads of his palms and on his finger tips.

"Frostbite?" John queried quietly to himself under his breath.

"He made me hold blocks of ice in my hand for two days."

John bowed his head a little in a bid to hide the tears welling in his eyes. Sherlock had been through hell, Moriarty had broken him, Sherlock – the brilliant, invincible sociopath was broken. John lifted Sherlock's wounded hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss into the centre of his palm.

"Are you trying to kiss me better?" Sherlock asked, a slight smile tugging weakly at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm just… I'm so relieved to have you back." John answered tearfully before wiping his face with his sleeve and setting to work on Sherlock's hand. Once he had cleaned and treated the frostbite he set to work massaging the hand.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm just massaging your hand to increase the blood flow – it'll help stimulate new cell growth so it'll heal quicker."

"Of course." Sherlock said dazed.

John didn't bother to add that there were certain pressure points on the human hand which, when massaged, released a signal to alter serotonin levels in the brain - having a calming effect on the patient – because he would of course know that already.

He glanced up at Sherlock, who was now looking slightly more comfortable and relaxed, his eyes closed, his expression no longer scared or pained. John continued to gently massage his wrist and lower arm.

"Sherlock. I'm sorry, I'm going to have to insist that you're checked over properly. You know I have to."

Sherlock frowned and looked as though he might shout, or try to bolt for the door but instead he took a deep breath and then nodded very slightly.

"I can do it if you would prefer that, but I would need to be assisted by a nurse and I would probably need to consult with another doctor." He said gently as he finished massaging his hand and placed it back on the bed.

"No." Sherlock replied shakily. "But… will… will you stay with me?"

"Of course I will." John replied hastily, he didn't want to leave Sherlock's side for a moment. "Would you prefer a female doctor?"

Sherlock's face scrunched up with emotion, he looked confused, angry and so scared, John regretted asking. He waited a moment before adding "I thought it might be easier."

Sherlock eventually nodded very slightly.

"Ok" John said "I'm going to go and have a word with Lestrade, and we'll get someone to come and check you over."

But before he time to even stand up Sherlock grabbed his wrist "Don't tell Lestrade, please, please don't tell him." He sounded alarmingly anxious.

"I'm not going to be specific, I'm just going to get him to go and find a doctor so that I don't have to leave, ok."

Sherlock thought about this for a moment, breathing deeply and nodded again. John stood up to find that his legs felt weak beneath him, he slowly walked to the door and stepped outside closing the door behind him.

Lestrade looked up from his polystyrene cup of coffee and was immediately on his feet. "How is he?" he asked.

John closed his eyes and exhaled, the full extent of the situation hitting him only now. "It's pretty bad. He needs to be fully examined, he doesn't want me to do it. I was wondering if you could get a doctor to come as soon as possible… a female doctor." He looked at Lestrade intently, hoping that he would understand. Judging from the way he bowed his head and ran his hands through his hair, the way he did when a case blew up in his face, John assumed he'd got the message.

He looked up at John and silently nodded before setting off towards reception. John braced himself for what was undoubtedly going to be some of the most difficult hours of his life and walked back into the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

He walked back over to Sherlock but instead of sitting on the bed he swung a chair round and sat in it next to him. Sherlock's breathing was a little uneven and he was staring straight ahead, he hadn't even acknowledged John's return into the room.

John reached up and placed a hand over his and he flinched a little and then looked in John's direction, startled, those icy blue eyes glistening with tears. John curled his fingers around Sherlock's and squeezed gently.

"If there is anything you need, anything you need me to do or say or refrain from doing or saying – even if you just need somebody to yell at - I'm here for you… whatever you need."

Sherlock just stared at him, he looked scared.

"You're going to be okay, I promise. It's going to be difficult, but it will be over soon and I'm going to be with you the whole time. And if, at any point, you need them to stop then just say and they'll stop."

Sherlock laid his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes and John was just relieved, and slightly surprised, that he was actually consenting to an examination. They sat in silence for a while, John still holding Sherlock's hand. He didn't know what to say, and deducted it would probably be best to say nothing at present.

After about 5 minutes Lestrade returned with a doctor and nurse. Lestrade held the door open for them and smiled at Sherlock, once the medics had entered the room he nodded and said "If you need anything I'll be just outside." John nodded back and mouthed a silent 'thank you'. He hadn't really thought about what a decent, stand-up bloke Lestrade was before, but right now he was exactly who John wanted to have stationed outside.

Once Lestrade had closed the door, the doctor - a pleasant looking, middle aged woman, spoke "Good Afternoon Sherlock, I'm Doctor Huntley and this is Julie." she said gesturing towards the nurse who smiled politely. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock averted his gaze and remained silent; apparently he still wasn't ready to talk to anyone who wasn't John.

"He's been through a lot. I think he's just a bit fragile right now. I'm John Watson, I'm his friend, flatmate and doctor." John said shaking Doctor Huntley's hand. "I've already seen to the cuts on his face and chest and treated his left hand for frostbite. He doesn't seem to have any further injuries, but he's been…" John struggled to find a delicate way to explain, and decided perhaps it would be better to be blunt. "He's made it clear that he's been sexually assaulted."

Huntley nodded to John and sat down gently on the bed next to Sherlock. He did not look up or acknowledge her in any way and John was worried that this would end badly. But to his relief she seemed to know exactly what she was doing.

"Ok Sherlock. I'm afraid I'm going to have to examine you. It can be quite unpleasant but it doesn't take very long at all, and John can stay with you if you like. I'm going to ask you some questions first, if that's ok, and then I'll explain to you exactly what the examination entails so that you know what I'm doing and why. If at any point you need me to stop then just let me know and I will stop immediately." She spoke softly but did not patronise him, she was gentle but authoritative in a way that reassured John, and hopefully Sherlock, that he was in capable hands.

"Is there anything I can get for you to make you more comfortable right now?" she asked.

Sherlock still said nothing and still didn't meet her eye. John understood how difficult all this must be on him, he placed a hand reassuringly on his shoulder and Sherlock's hand snaked up to hold it in place. He slowly looked up at the doctor and shook his head. "No… thank you." He said hoarsely.

"Ok" she gave him a reassuring nod. "Would you like Doctor Watson to stay with you?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied firmly and tightened his grip on John's hand and in return John gently squeezed his shoulder to let him know he was staying put. Huntley nodded again and smiled warmly before standing up and walking over to the nurse who had kept a discreet distance. They spoke briefly and the nurse left the room.

"Now then, not that I don't trust Doctor Watson's medical prowess" she began "but I'm just going to check your vital signs and have a look at these cuts, just to make absolutely sure you're not at risk of infection." She took her stethoscope from around her neck and moved round the bed to lean over Sherlock's left side. John removed his hand from Sherlock's shoulder and he instantly tensed up.

"John" he uttered, anxiously.

"It's ok, I'm right here." He said, sitting down on the chair next to the bed and taking Sherlock's hand again.

She waited until Sherlock had calmed a little again. "Is it ok for me to proceed now Sherlock?"

"Yes… I'm sorry." He said shakily.

"It's ok, we can take as much time as you need." She said reassuringly before moving to press the cool stethoscope to his chest. She listened, checking his heartbeat for a moment. "Ok, can you sit forward a little for me?" Sherlock obliged and she pressed the stethoscope to his back "Deep breath in…" Sherlock took a tremulous breath in and held it "and out slowly." Again he obliged and Huntley removed the stethoscope. "Good, that all seems ok. You can lie back now."

He laid back and glanced at John who gave him a reassuring smile back.

"I'm just going to check your pulse." Huntley said. "Oh, it was your left hand that was injured wasn't it, would it be ok to check it on your right?"

Sherlock nodded and John squeezed his hand slightly before letting go and moving out of the Doctor's way as she rounded the bed and gently lifted his wrist and checked his pulse. "Your pulse is slightly elevated but that is not unusual in such circumstances." She pressed a hand to his forehead for a moment. "You don't have a temperature which is good. It seems you do know what you're doing after all Doctor Watson." She smiled.

Just then there was a knock on the door, Huntley went to open it, and retrieved a clipboard, which Julie the nurse, had brought for her, again they exchanged a few words and Julie left again.

"Right I'll just have a look at these cuts and then we'll have a talk." She said abandoning the clipboard at the end of the bed.

She checked the cut on Sherlock's face and seemed reasonably happy with it, then had a look at the frostbite and recommended that Sherlock go on a course of antibiotics to make she neither injury became infected. John was glad to see that Sherlock was listening to her and nodded to show that he was satisfied with her evaluations.

"Is it ok for me to check the cuts on your chest?" she asked.

Sherlock looked a little bit nervous but nodded. She carefully removed the dressing, apologising for hurting Sherlock when a part of it was reluctant to leave his skin. Once she had taken the dressing off John shuddered again at the message engraved into Sherlock's skin and turned away. Huntley however managed to keep her countenance and checked the wounds exactly as she did the others. She nodded and replaced the dressing. "Well, again, John seems to have done a good job there, but we will need to keep your wounds clean and change the dressing regularly. I can ask Julie to see to that later or if you would prefer we can probably leave you in John's capable hands, provided that you keep it under your hat, it's more than my jobs worth." She smiled. Sherlock nodded.

Huntley retrieved the clipboard from the end of the bed and drew a high stool round beside the bed so that she was facing Sherlock but was sitting at a reasonable distance.

"Right," she started in that same gentle yet authoritative tone. "I'm going to ask you some questions now Sherlock. People often find this process difficult so remember that you can take as much time as you need. Again if you need me to stop, just say so, if there are any questions you're not comfortable with or don't understand I can rephrase them. Are you ready?"

Sherlock reached his hand across to John's and grasped it, John placed his free hand over Sherlock's. "I'm right here."

"Ok." Sherlock said, Doctor Huntley nodded and took a pen from her top pocket.

"Do you think you'd be able to tell me, in your own words, what happened?"

Sherlock took a long breath. "I was taken – held against my will, by… a man…" he paused, contemplating. "I was detained in a basement room for eight days and sixteen hours. I was chained to the walls by my wrists. On the first day, M… the man…he" he stopped again and shuddered.

John stroked his hand a little. Sherlock took a few long breaths.

"He forcibly…" pausing again "…he… raped me."

The word resonated like gunfire, tearing through John again, like a bullet.

"Ok." Huntley said gently, she jotted down a few notes whilst John stroked Sherlock's hand in a bid to comfort him. The Doctor waited a while before continuing.

She began softly. "I'm really sorry, but I have to ask some rather blunt questions now, it's just because I need to know exactly what happened, from a medical and legal perspective. If you don't want to speak you can just nod or shake your head. Again, if you need me to stop or to rephrase any of these questions then just give me a shout, ok?"

Sherlock took a shaky breath and nodded.

"So, he penetrated you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"With his penis?"

He nodded again.

"He didn't at any time penetrate you utilising anything else at all, any objects?"

He shook his head.

Huntley stopped to take more notes.

"Ok. Did he penetrate you orally?"

He shook his head.

"Anally?"

He gave a minute nod of the head and John squeezed his hand.

"Ok, just a few more questions Sherlock, you're doing really well." She noted down a few more things.

"Was it a single occurrence?"

Sherlock winced a little and shook his head.

"No, alright. But it was the same act each time?"

He nodded.

"Was it the same man each time?"

Again he nodded.

"Ok, we're nearly done." Again, she took some notes.

"Did he, at any time, ejaculate during penetration?"

Sherlock seemed to break at this question, hanging his head down and whimpering as he began to cry softly. John let go of his hand and leaned over him and took him in his arms again. Sherlock clung desperately to him and shook with sobs. "Shh, it's ok. You're doing so well Sherlock." John pressed him close to his chest and stroked his hair as he had done before and thankfully it had the same effect. Sherlock quietened and stopped shaking. John kept hold of him for a while, worried that if he let him go he would just cry all the harder. Eventually Huntley broke the silence.

"Would you like me to leave you for a moment?" She asked quietly.

John pulled back a little, enough that he could see Sherlock's face. "D'you want to take a minute?" he paraphrased the Doctor's question.

Sherlock sniffed and then shook his head. "No… I'm fine… sorry."

"It's fine, don't be sorry." John replied, returning to his seat and taking his hand again.

"Are you okay?" Huntley asked Sherlock, her eyes full of genuine concern.

Sherlock nodded.

"Ok, would you like me to repeat or rephrase the question?"

"No, it's fine." Sherlock seemed to have mustered some courage. "He did… in answer to your previous question."

"Can I ask how many times did he violate you in this way?" She ventured.

"Three." He replied shakily and sniffed.

Huntley noted down a couple more sentences.

"Is there anything you feel we haven't covered, anything at all?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No."

"Thank you. I don't need to ask you any more questions for now…" just then there was another light knock at the door, again Huntley got up and opened it and allowed Julie to enter the room pushing a trolley containing medical equipment, which Sherlock refused to look at.

She sat back down on the stool whilst Julie set to work prepping some instruments.

"Right, I'm just going to explain the examination process and exactly what I'm going to be doing. Remember that if there's anything you don't understand or if you have any questions then don't hesitate to ask."

Sherlock nodded and Huntley went into a detailed medical description of what she was going to do. Not that she needed to, obviously Sherlock and his planet sized brain knew the drill, but he listened or appeared to be listening anyway and John nodded at a couple of things that she said, out of politeness.

"Now, I have performed this examination many a time and I promise I will make it as quick as I can and try not to hurt you, ok?"

Sherlock nodded again, but John could see he was anxious.

Huntley stood up and Sherlock's grip on John's hand tightened. "Ok can you sit forward for me again? That's it. I'm just going to get rid of some of these pillows and lie you down flat on your back." John held Sherlock against him while she removed two pillows and placed them atop the stool she had just been sitting on. John lowered Sherlock back down. "Okay?" he asked quietly. Sherlock looked at him quizzically before shaking his head very slightly. "It'll be okay, let's just get it over with, yeah?"

John moved out of the way of the nurse who was currently attaching stirrups to the end of the bed. Sherlock closed his eyes and gripped the sheet with his right hand.

Doctor Huntley moved round to Sherlock's left side again. "I'm just going to remove your bed sheets now Sherlock."

She took the blanket's covering his thin frame away and placed them with the pillows. Sherlock covered his face with his right hand and whimpered slightly. John immediately sat down on the bed next to him and tentatively stroked his hair.

"Ok Sherlock – I'm just going to guide your feet into the stirrups. Are you ok for me to do that?"

He nodded a little and John answered for him.

Huntley slid the stirrups further towards the head of the bed and secured them before individually bending Sherlock's knees and placing his feet in the stirrups. This was enough to set Sherlock off crying gently against John's hand which was now cupping his cheek. "Shh, it's okay." He took Sherlock's right hand with his and kissed it softly before holding it against his chest.

"Please don't look." Sherlock whimpered.

"I won't look, I promise."

"I'm sorry, John, I need to change the height of the bed, I don't suppose you could stand up just for a minute?" Huntley seemed genuinely apologetic.

"Of course." John hopped off the bed, keeping one hand wrapped around Sherlock's hand and one stroking his face. She heightened the bed but lowered the end portion to allow her access to work on the patient.

"Right, all done, as you were."

John moved back to stand over Sherlock, keeping eye contact with him, and effectively shielding him from what was happening at the end of the bed.

"Ok. I'm going to start now Sherlock." Huntley said. "I'm just going to clean the area at first, but again, if you want me to stop then just let me know and I'll stop right away."

Sherlock tensed up and closed his eyes, squeezing the life out of John's hand.

"Ok, all done. Now, Sherlock I'm now going to need to do an interior assessment to locate any trauma, as we discussed, are you ok for me to continue?" She asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes." John answered for him.

There was a brief wait whilst the Doctor prepped some equipment. "Ok, I'm going to start now, this might hurt a little bit Sherlock but I'm going to be as quick as I can. Ok… there we go." She spoke softly and evenly, conferring occasionally with the nurse as she worked.

Sherlock let out a small cry of pain and began to sob, John's heart was breaking. He reached out and stroked Sherlock's face and hair, wishing he could just hold him, take him away from here, this situation, this reality. "It's okay, shhh, you're doing really well, you're doing so well." He lightly kissed his hand again before pressing it against his chest, soothingly running his thumb over his knuckles.

"That doesn't look too bad." Huntley remarked. "I'm just going to take a sample for testing and then we're done."

Sherlock had calmed a little with John holding his hand and gently stroking his hair.

"Ok. All done." Huntley said.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths while Huntley took his feet out of the stirrups and returned the bed to it's normal position.

"Ok, let's get this gown back on." The nurse said, it was the first time she had spoken to Sherlock but she had a lovely, rounded Northern accent. John helped Sherlock to sit back up as Julie helped him on with the hospital gown and tied it at the back again.

"There. Now I'll just get you some fresh bed covers." She smiled and went to the wardrobe in the corner of the room and pulled out some fresh sheets before making the bed and tucking Sherlock in. "Ok, is there anything I can get for you, anyone you'd like me to phone?" She asked sweetly.

Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes.

"Right then, Sherlock, there is slight tissue damage to the upper anal canal, it isn't inflamed at the moment and with a course of strong antibiotics it should heal on it's own without surgery. Though it will be quite painful for some time - I'll get Julie to administer you with some pain relief. You also have some tearing to the outer sphincter, but I treated that during the examination and I'm confident that, that will clear up soon as well. Try and get some rest, I'll be back in to talk to you again in a little while." Huntley said, standing at the end of the bed. Sherlock didn't reply, didn't even open his eyes just swallowed hard, swallowing back tears John presumed. "Would you like me to inform the Detective Inspector of the situation?" She asked.

"No." John answered for Sherlock. "I'll speak with him."

She nodded and cast a sorrowful glance at Sherlock who was still lying still with his eyes closed. "I'll see you in a little while then." She said.

"Thank you Doctor." John said, hoping that she would pick up on the genuine gratitude he felt for her professionalism and sensitivity.

She nodded and left with Julie.

Sherlock and John remained still and quiet for an awfully long time. John couldn't think of anything he could say to make this any easier.

"What can I do?" He asked eventually.

"Get Mycroft."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Mycroft arrived exactly 19 minutes and 14 seconds after John texted him. Fast - even for Mycroft.

There was a light tap on the door and John got up to open it as Sherlock, who was clearly exhausted, had fallen asleep. He slowly opened it to see Mycroft's austere expression on the other side. They held each other's gaze for a moment before Mycroft's eyes found their way over John's shoulder to his brother's fragile form.

"Sherlock." He whispered to himself, his face suddenly anhuished and grief stricken. John laid a hand on his shoulder lightly but as soon as he made contact Mycroft pushed passed him and moved to his brother's bedside.

Slowly he reached his hand out to tentatively cup Sherlock's face, who awoke immediately and let out a small fearful whimper. It was not the first time John had heard Sherlock make that noise today, but it still stung him. He knew he ought to leave and give them some space, but he just wanted to make sure Sherlock was ok before he did.

"It's ok. It's me, Sherlock." Mycroft spoke more tenderly than John ever would have thought him capable.

Sherlock's expression crumpled again and he hid his face in his hands in a bid to hide the impending sobbing from his elder brother. But it didn't work.

Mycroft sat down on the bed facing Sherlock and firmly gripped both his wrists, pulling his towards him and enveloping him in a fierce hug. Sherlock was crying loudly and uncontrollably once more, gripping Mycroft's lapels, Mycroft was rocking him gently and murmuring soothing words, he could clearly handle this situation. John knew he ought to give them some time, and so left silently, closing the door behind him. But before he left he heard something that perplexed him.

"You said… you said it would never… happen… again." Sherlock cried between sobs.

"I know. I'm sorry." Mycroft replied.

John's head was fuzzy, he was having a hard time processing all this, as he closed the door he suddenly felt the urgent need to sit down.

"John." Lestrade was once again on his feet, standing in front of John, only this time he had questions.

"Will you please tell me what's going on? I've been going crazy out here."

John wanted to punch him in the face, but decided it might be best to save that for the next time he saw Anderson.

"Can we sit down?" John asked, leaning heavily against the wall.

They sat in the faux leather chairs in the corridor, Lestrade gripping his coffee – John his much needed tea, and he told him everything he knew. Lestrade's face grew more and more grave as John went through the list of injuries. Eventually, John had no useful information left, unless you would count the fact that he was going to personally find and kill Moriarty as useful.

"He'll have to give a statement." Lestrade said solemnly.

John nodded. "When?"

"As soon as possible… but it can probably wait till tomorrow. Are they going to keep him in overnight?"

"I would presume so, I would, if it was my call."

"Ok." Lestrade stood up and John followed. "I really need to get back to the Yard, and everything seems to be under control here, though I will be sending an officer over for security purposes." He sighed. "Thank God you're here John," Patting him on the shoulder "if you need anything you know where to get me. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

John just nodded again as Lestrade turned and left.

He fell back into the chair he had been sitting in and rested his head in his hands. He closed his eyes but all he could see was the word viciously carved into Sherlock's chest and so he snapped them back open again, choosing instead to watch the clock, which ticked painfully slowly from 3:17pm to 5:05pm, at which point Mycroft exited Sherlock's room and collapsed into the chair next to John.

"He's asleep." Is all he could seem to say.

John found himself unable to say anything, but instead placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder once again, this time Mycroft allowed it to stay there.

"This… it's not..." he stuttered after a while "…it's not the first time that this has happened… to him." his voice was deep and shaken, and it was clear that he had been crying.

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft sat back in his chair and stared at the door to Sherlock's room for a while, ponderous, mouth opening and closing.

"Our parents were socialites, Mummy was an heiress and our Father was an Earl. They had a very, hectic social life, shall we say. There was rarely a weekend when a party was not being thrown in the old place. Mummy's friends were all darlings and were fond of Sherlock and I, especially Sherlock, you'll be surprised to hear that he was actually a very sensitive, vibrant child – he was impossible not to love." Mycroft seemed almost unaware of John's presence as he spoke. His eyes glazed, his head still facing Sherlock's door.

"A lot of Father's friends were much less pleasant, and even less pleasant still when they got violently drunk – which they would, every time they visited. It always upset Mummy if Sherlock or I were to witness Father and his friends behaving that way, they would fight constantly about it." He suddenly became aware of John again and turned to glance at him.

"I suppose all this is irrelevant really." He sighed heavily. "There was a particularly big party one weekend, I was nineteen at the time, and Sherlock thirteen. I was visiting from Cambridge but I wasn't getting there till late Saturday night, by the time I got there the party was in full swing – literally in some rooms. I decided I wanted nothing to do with another one of those ghastly ordeals, and I certainly didn't want to conduct a conversation with either of my inebriated parents – the only reason I was there anyway was because I had promised Lockie a visit." It took John a moment to realise that by 'Lockie' he meant Sherlock. The idea that Sherlock had a nickname (other than 'freak') was totally unfathomable.

"So I went to his room but he wasn't there, I ended up searching the entire house before I eventually found him in the summerhouse…" Mycroft bowed his head, his eyes closed. "He was lying unconscious, naked and covered in blood. It later transpired that he had been assaulted… raped… by three of my bastard Father's friends." John would have been shocked to hear Mycroft swear were it not for the information he had just imparted. Sherlock had been raped at the age of thirteen. It was just so awful. John's head was spinning and he had to lean forward in a bid not to faint. He was breathing heavily, aware that he ought to say something to Mycroft but found himself unable.

"That's why…" Mycroft began, his voice much more shaken than earlier "…that's why he is the way he is. I think it was all just too much for him. He couldn't handle it, and so his brain shut down any emotion, any remorse and left only reason – a brilliant but broken man. I tried to get though to him for years, but he always pushed me away – I think in part he blamed me for what happened… and he would be right to, I should have got there earlier – I should have been there to protect him." A tear slid down his face.

"It's not your fault Mycroft. It's not." John's own voice was hoarse and distant.

"I had to carry him from the summerhouse to my car and drive him to hospital. He screamed and cried the whole way through the examinations and medical procedures. I couldn't bear it." Tears were now flowing freely down his face. "I promised him that nobody would ever hurt him again, that I would always be there to protect him… I was wrong."

"You couldn't have stopped this. You can't blame yourself." John tried to sound more forceful, more reassuring, but found that he still just sounded lost.

Mycroft took a moment to get his composure back and then turned to face John.

"I need to get to work." He looked at John intently. "Will you stay?"

"Of course." John answered immediately. Mycroft smiled weakly and walked past him down the hallway towards the exit.

"Mycroft…"

John called after him, Mycroft turned momentarily to look at him.

"Find him and kill him… before I do."


	4. Chapter 4

Hello everyone! Just wanted to write a quick note to say thank you for all the reviews! This is my first fic so it's so lovely to get overwhelmingly positive feedback from a community of such remarkable writers. Sorry that my chapter updates are a little infrequent, I'm finding it tricky to get into the right state of mind for this one - it's pretty full on, however after writing this chapter I'm eager to see some resolution and a little bit of ass kicking; Watson style! Rest assured - Moriarty is gonna get it - big time! :D

Anyway, thanks again, and enjoy!

Chapter Four

John re-entered the room to find Sherlock asleep once more. He still looked exhausted however, his eyes were swollen and his face blotchy from crying, and his brow was creased into a frown. John sat in the chair beside his bed again and held his head in his hands. He could hardly believe all of the revelations of the day, he didn't want to believe them. It was just so monstrous to think that Sherlock had been so severely attacked at such a young age and now he had, had to go through it all again.

The thing that upset John the most was that it all made perfect sense really - Mycroft had said that the attack had turned Sherlock into the cold-hearted, sociopathic genius that he was. All that extraordinary ability and wit that John was always so dazzled by, that brilliance, that spark - it was all a byproduct of a truly horrific event that Sherlock hadn't even begun to be able to deal with.

He started suddenly as he realised that there were tears running from his own eyes, he was crying, and it was hardly surprising, his heart bled for the man in the bed next to him, his best friend - the man who had single handedly saved him from himself after he returned from the war, how could John not have seen that he too was in a war of his own?

And Mycroft... John's thoughts suddenly turned to the older Holmes brother - he must have been carrying this burden too, this sense of guilt and failure. It all seemed to fit into place now; why Mycroft was so keen to have John keep an eye on Sherlock, why he demanded information and updates on not only his where-a-bouts and daily activities, but also his state of mind, and the ammount of sleep he was getting. John felt a pang of guilt for every time he'd replied 'Why don't you ask him?' to Mycroft's hyper-inquisitive messages.

John sat in contemplation for a while, listening to Sherlock's faint breathing, steadying, reassuring. After a while the was a light knock on the door and John got up to answer it, it was Doctor Huntley, she had returned as promised to talk through the results of the initial tests.

"Do we have to wake him?" John asked, knowing full well the answer, but reluctant to deny Sherlock some much needed rest.

"I'm afraid so." Huntley replied apologetically. "I'm aware that he hasn't had an IV put in and hasn't, to my knowledge, taken any fluids since he was admitted and what with the potentiall for infection it would be advisable that he either drink quite a lot of water or be put on a saline solution overnight."

John nodded, the medical part of his brain had all but completely shut down, however everything she said made sense.

"Perhaps it might be better if you wake him though, it might be easier for him to see a familar face." She suggested.

John acceded and moved back over to Sherlock, placing a hand lightly on his forehead.

"Sherlock." He spoke as gently as possible, aware of how terrified Sherlock might be on awaking. Luckily Sherlock took a little more time to come around this time and stared blankly up at John before the realisation spread across his face and he gave a small nod.

"Doctor Huntley's come back to talk to you." He spoke a little louder, no longer worried about scaring him.

Sherlock tried to sit forward but let out a small gasp of pain and fell back into the pillows, John helped him to position himself so that he was more comfortable. Once he was looking less pained Huntley moved further into the room and addressed him herself.

"Hi Sherlock, how are you feeling?"

She was met with silence, understandably, John thought.

"I've got some of the results back and they all look very good. You don't appear to have caught any infectious diseases which is great, of course that will need to be an ongoing assessment, so if you notice anything, any changes or developments please let us know. I've also written out a couple of prescriptions for you for antibiotics and pain relief, and I'll get you to take some now just to get you started on those. OK?"

Sherlock nodded meekly.

"Are you in any pain at the moment?"

Sherlock nodded slightly again.

"On a scale of one to ten one being very mild and ten being unbearable, how would you describe the pain?"

"Five." the answer was barely above a whisper.

"Ok, well we'll get you started on the painkillers then and that should help with that. Now, I need you to try and drink as much as possible because I'm aware that you may be slightly dehydrated, it would be better to drink a little bit very often as apposed to a lot all in one go, if you can manage that then you'll be able to go home first thing tomorrow, ok?"

Sherlock nodded "Thank you."

Huntley smiled and poured him a cup of water from the water jug next to his bed and left to get his prescriptions, returning moments later. Once Sherlock had taken the medication Huntley left saying that she would be back in the morning and reiterated that she would probably be able to discharge him.

Once again John and Sherlock found themselves alone, neither knowing what to say.

"You're not going to leave me are you?" Sherlock asked eventually.

"No, of course not, I'm staying right here." John replied sitting back down in his chair and taking Sherlock's hand again.

The was a pause while Sherlock studied their intertwined hands.

"Thank you John... for everything... I..." Sherlock tried to blink back yet more tears as he spoke.

"There's no need to thank me. You're my friend, Sherlock, and I care about you very much. Right now I don't want to be anywhere else, I'm not going anywhere." John said soothingly.

"...Mycroft told you... about... the other time." Sherlock stated, sounding choked up.

"Yeah, yeah he did." John squeezed his hand a little.

There was another long silence as Sherlock continued to stare down at thier hands in thought, his brows knitted painfully together in a sharp frown.

"He knew about it... Mm... Moriarty." Sherlock winced as he said his name. "He mocked me for it, he said that I... obviously wanted... wanted it..." Sherlock broke down again, bringing his free hand up to his face to cover his eyes.

John stood and then sat back down on the bed in front of Sherlock once again. He carefully hooked an arm around his waist and pulled him in towards him, a hand resting in Sherlock's hair, guiding his head to rest in the crook of his shoulder, then wrapping his arms tightly around his shuddering frame.

"It's alright, I've got you." John whispered as he felt Sherlock sniff and take short gasps, an obvious atempt to compose himself. "It's ok Sherlock, let it out, I'll be here with you, the whole time - you don't have to be brave." John said gently rubbing his back a little, and then holding him closer as he completely crumbled against him, weeping and crying out, eventually sobbing so hard that his cries were choked, silent screams against John's collarbone. Sherlock's hot tears and saliva soaked through John's shirt as he clung to him, crying himself to exhaustion.

John eventually felt Sherlock relax in his arms, but still shuddering occasionally and breathing shallowly. They stayed that way for a long time, neither saying anything. John cuddled Sherlock closer to him and leaned his head in to nestle next to Sherlock's. He wanted to do anything in his power to make Sherlock feel safe, feel secure and even loved. John was aware that under 'usual circumstances' this kind of contact would make them both reel with awkwardness, but he was right, right now he didn't want to be anywhere other than here - here for Sherlock.

After a while John kicked his shoes off and shuffled up the bed so his body was largely underneath Sherlock's, still holding him, John lowered them both down so that he was still cradling his, now only semi conscious, friend in his arms.

"Try to get some sleep." He whispered and felt Sherlock nod slightly against his chest before falling fast asleep once more. John placed a soft kiss on the top of his head, sighing.

"I'll be right here."


	5. Chapter 5

Hey! Sorry this has taken me aaaages! But I've finally finished it. Warning - extremely violent and very sappy. :)

Chapter Five

It had been 3 days since John had brought Sherlock home from the hospital, the journey back to the flat had acted as a sort of preview to the days that would follow; a painful, heavy silence loomed over them. Along with the anguish, confusion and exhaustion that they both felt, those three days were almost impossible to endure. John's brow was creased into a constant state of concern, and Mrs Hudson fretted endlessly over both of 'her boys'. Sherlock drew back into himself, barely eating or speaking or even making eye contact, but pacing, playing the violin and staring into space – it was almost as if everything had gone back to normal, except that he did not shoot at the fixtures, shout at the television or complain that he was bored… and when Lestrade visited he either wanted information or offered pointless condolences. There were no murder cases now, just long, long days filled with a dreadful, sickening silence.

John made several attempts to talk to Sherlock, to ascertain how he was coping, to ask if he needed anything. But it was all in vain; Sherlock spurned his attempts to 'baby him' as he put it, and told John to go back to his menial little job in the real world. It scared John how quickly Sherlock had gone from the quivering, weeping wreck in the hospital bed to the cold, aloof automaton he witnessed now.

He wondered if this was Sherlock pushing him away, as he had pushed Mycroft away all those years ago – this thought filled John with dread, he didn't want to become Sherlock's other "arch enemy". He even started to catalogue his blame, to seek out his own guilt – after all, he hadn't accompanied Lestrade in the search for Sherlock, he had just curled up into a ball and worried. He didn't even try. He felt so helpless; he couldn't assist Sherlock in any way, other than to force him to drink the occasional cup of tea.

Then, on the fourth day, his phone rang. Mycroft.

"I've found him."

"Mycroft!"

"I have him. He's secure, alone and untraceable. I'm sending a car. Bring whatever you think you might need."

Mycroft then hung up, John stood frozen to the spot in the middle of the living room floor. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly, his cognitive functions gradually building speed, his awareness that he was shaking with rage, relief… fear? His impulses, the crawling tingle of anticipation, the urge to scream - all burning beneath his calm exterior. Eventually he snapped into action and strode to his room to pull his boots on.

'Bring whatever you think you might need.'

He reached for his gun, considered the penknife for a moment, but decided against it in the end, he was going to kill him, hurt him, but he wouldn't stoop to his level.

He threw his jacket on and made his way towards the door.

"What will it solve John, killing him?"

He heard Sherlock's croaky, sleep broken voice behind him. Turning to face him he saw expression there for the first time in days, he just looked so tired, and sad. He considered lying to him for a moment before thinking better of it, Sherlock might be broken, but he could still read minds.

"I will never…" John began, walking towards him "rest until I know that he can never hurt you again." He spoke gruffly, and low – almost growling. They were standing so close now, faces almost touching, fear flickering through Sherlock's eyes, dogged determination though John's as he placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling his head down just enough to reach up on tip toes and plant a firm kiss on his temple. In a flash Sherlock grabbed John's other wrist, holding him in place and kissed him, fraught, his lips crushing against John's, he was trembling and it was a short-lived desperate kiss. John pulled away - bewildered, Sherlock ducked his head down, clearly dejected, hurt even.

Nothing was really making sense right now, John's rational side was trying to tell him that he was vehemently heterosexual, that Sherlock was just a friend and that he probably only kissed him because he was incredibly vulnerable at the moment and a million other reasons why John should fight his growing urge to kiss him back. But clearly John was in no mood to listen to his rational side; without giving it a second thought, and with what felt like the most normal and natural intention in the world, he gently tilted Sherlock's chin up and leaned in again, bestowing him with a soft, loving, lingering kiss before turning and practically running out of the door. He found himself outside quickly enough, and just as expected and unmarked car drew up and he got in, but not before glancing up at the window to see Sherlock staring down at him, his expression so unreadable, so… Sherlock

…

"Well this is nice – original. I like what you've done with the place Mr Iceman, very subterranean chic, very mind-numbingly predictable."

Mycroft glared down at Moriarty with disgust, how dare he even speak to him? How dare someone that evil even exist? It was taking all of his willpower not to get to work before John arrived.

"Sooo! It's been a while since I've been tied to a chair – I do love a bit of bondage… little bit of S and M, these are some pretty good knots – had a lot of practise?"

Mycroft looked around, trying to appear disinterested in Moriarty's pathetic little jibes. He had brought him to a bunker which only he and four other people even knew existed, being the government had its perks so to speak.

"You know, I don't know if he mentioned it, but I had your darling little brother all tied up in knots just last week… I never knew he was so… flexible –"

Mycroft's patience for John ran out and he turned to punch Moriarty in the face, breaking two fingers in the process. It was worth it.

"Hahahaahaha!" Moriarty laughed manically in response "So the games begin! And here was I thinking we'd have to wait around for the Holmes family lapdog! Aah speak of the devil – John, sex on legs – there you are! We've been waiting. Tell me, how's my little slut doing – can he still walk? You know he never phones-"

John had entered the room while Moriarty was in mid-sentence, and had immediately lost what little composure he brought with him, he walked briskly towards him, and placed a swift, hard punch to his gut.

Moriarty coughed and gasped but his spluttering breathes morphed into fits of hysterical laughter. John looked to Mycroft who looked gravely back at him.

"So what now then boys? What? You intimidate me, beat the shite out'a me, torture me, kill me – oh yawn - SERIOUSLY!" he began quietly, disinterestedly and suddenly shouted in that way of his that was always sure to put people on edge. "Boys! Predictable… so, disappointingly predictable. I'm bored already. Honestly what would Sherlock say?"

John grabbed one of his hands that was secured to the chair by the wrist and bent it back with one sharp, quick motion, immediately snapping his wrist in the process. It made a sickening cracking noise and Moriarty cried out slightly before biting his lip to silence himself. John lowered his face next his ear and spoke so quietly that Mycroft could hardly hear him.

"Yes. In answer to your question – we are going to torture you, we are going to kill you, and it may be predictable, you may be bored, but I am gonna fucking love this."

Moriarty turned his head and grinned at him and winked and John responded instinctually by headbutting him as hard as he could, causing the chair and Moriarty to topple over. He and Mycroft immediately set to work kicking him repeatedly in the stomach and ribs, in his head John clinically catalogued the ribs broken, organs ruptured and the extent of the internal bleeding that he was causing as he and Mycroft mercilessly hit him again and again.

They both stopped abruptly and hauled him and the chair upright again – though he was now clearly in an inordinate amount of pain, Moriarty still managed a sick smile. Mycroft took this as an opportunity to take his trusted umbrella and stab him in the foot with it and then punching him repeatedly in the chest with his good hand. John watched on as Moriarty would cough and intermittently laugh or hoarsely shout "MORE."

"Enough." John said at last.

Mycroft drew away, but not before delivering yet another sharp blow to his face, breaking some teeth and causing Moriarty to shut up for a moment.

"Enough." Mycroft echoed John.

John drew his gun from the small of his back and loaded it, Mycroft opened a case in the corner of the room and did the same.

"Together?" John said as they both aimed.

Mycroft simply nodded.

"Well *cough*… this is sweet." Moriarty said breathily. "How touching! Vengeance! Vengeance for the little slut – it's not like he isn't fucked up for life anyway. I broke him, hadn't you noticed. You know I always broke all my playthings as a child, it makes sense the same rules still apply."

John itched to pull the trigger, but waited, waited to hear him out. Somehow, he needed to hear this, he needed to wait till the exact right moment.

"So what? You both shoot me and then live happily ever after – the lapdog, the iceman and the virgin – oops! I can hardly call him THAT anymore now can I!" More manic laughter emanated from him before he coughed and spluttered, a little blood running from his nose. Suddenly his expression pooled into solemnity.

"Seriously though – you're going to shoot me? You two. What a sweet and heart-warmingly naïve thought. I mean really Mycroft –in your heart of hearts you know you can't get away with this, you might BE the government but these things have a way of popping their little head's up when you least expect it… aaand yooou knoooow iiiit! And John! Jesus John! The fact you haven't done it yet just serves to prove that you're not going to. What? You're sticking around to hear me say something so heinous that you just have to blow my brains out – ok – how about um, Sherlock's clearly just a whore? Sherlock screamed your name when I came into him? By the way, that's actually the God's honest truth. Uum, how about - I've stretched Sherlock out so much that when you finally get around to fucking each other I'll have well and truly spoiled the ride for everyone including you!"

John clicked the safety catch off and brought his second hand to join his first, steadying his aim.

"You see – if you're waiting around for reasons you got plenty – and look I'm still breathing."

"Then enjoy your last breath." John pulled the trigger and was immediately followed by Mycroft. Everything happened slowly then, not for the first time John and Mycroft both watched a man die at their own hands, but this time felt not even the tiniest smidgen of remorse. However his wounds were not instantly fatal and he writhed a little, gurgling, trembling. John was about to shoot again when suddenly another two shots rang out from behind them and he froze. For a moment he felt sure that he had been shot again, that this was it, but even in that split second, his eyes still locked on a writhing, dying, purely evil man – he knew that it was worth it. For Sherlock.

It slowly clicked in though, that he hadn't been shot and John spun round to see a tall figure silhouetted by the light in the open doorway behind him, gun in hand, still pointed neither at himself nor Mycroft but at Moriarty. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the light everything became clear.

"Sherlock!" He uttered walking towards him, seeing him more clearly now.

Sherlock slowly turned his gaze from the now thoroughly dead Moriarty to John. They each dropped their weapons, eyes locked, hearts pounding, unable to find any words. Sherlock reached a shaky hand out and touched John's face tentatively before he enveloped him in a fierce, desperate embrace.

…

Later, once they had gone home, once Mycroft had set about disposing of any evidence, once soft flakes of snow had begun to fall lightly on London, John's arms were, again, protectively wrapped around Sherlock. They were both lying on the sofa, face to face and John marvelled at how, despite the height difference, they fitted together so perfectly this way – Sherlock's head rested on one of John's arms whilst the other was strewn over his waist. One of Sherlock's hand's playing with his hair, the other holding him close, their legs entwined, their hips touching, their eyes locked together. He could feel Sherlock's breath and his mingling together, and he could smell Sherlock, that curiously wonderful smell of spices, nicotine and tea. He finally felt that he'd arrived at a place he was previously unaware he'd never been to before – home.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yes?" John ran his fingers through Sherlock's soft, thick hair.

"You know that… everything… it isn't just ok now."

"I know." He sighed. "It's going to take time, a lot of time – and… Sherlock, you're going to have to be open with me, open with how you feel. Because… I'm going to be here, and I'm going to help you through this, because I want… I want a life with you – as a flatmate, as a friend… as more than that even."

John placed a hand flat against Sherlock's chest to feel his heart pounding rapidly beneath, betraying him.

"And I know you'll need to take this slowly – I will too, this is… sudden for me, very sudden in fact. But I don't think that I've ever been as sure of anything, ever. I love you Sherlock Holmes, so much, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes glistening with tears and whispered "I love you too."


End file.
